A denizen of horror, a master of
ceremonies--bleeds out the sprinting
digits of a million clapperboards.
Relativistic rods of light showcasing
windows to faces that shouldn't be there.
As his corneas drop like glasses of
nightly milk startled by nonlocal
trespass.
He manages a robe that appears to have
been thrown on the fire of film.
His slippers split fake leather, as they
sequence what inches toward harm--
a screen's inn.
Which waits to reap a seeing.
His ears stock ashy twitters that scale
grizzly discoveries, like beef in a cow's
stomach.
Knowing that one staring at the back
of one's head, guarantees the back of
one's head being stared at in a theater.
With the proviso that there is no front
row (in reality).
He screams in the shower, not because
the water is too hot or cold.
There's something about a
death-obsessed animal sounding through
plaster & piles of brick--coupled with the
whole-body barks of a dog.
Which he loves to play back, as if a
third-party listener.